Reflections.
Reminders of something
In you I dislike about
Me.

So far from selflessly
We pat the shoulders of our
Loved ones when they
Remind us of our own
Rewardable sides.

We did good when they did good.
We harvest from their
Achievements.

I suppose mirrors are
The eyes of the
Soul.

Poet, be not afraid.
There are far worse things than
Bad poetry.

Keep writing; like a child keeps
Drawing with the purest of
Disregards to likeness.

The more stones you turn, the more
Gems you produce.

The more ink you rain,
The more gracious your written
Children grow.

All flexing builds muscle.

Rough bricks form castles.

Even Dalì carved canvases to shreds
And started anew
Not caring too much.
Not caring

Too much
To keep painting.

**** you, she says
Smiling between sobs.
You made me stop
Crying.

I am a poet.
Only lie in
Writing.

The Devil rests
Within the chests
Of men whose muse is Wine.
He wears my face
So well some days
His name just might be mine.

He drops the rest of his one
Daily smoke
On the cold January ground.
Puts his glove back on
And gazes at the crane,
With distant eyes under the brim
Of his orange hard hat.

Then, through one of those smiles
That make any bad day better,
He turns to me and speaks.

*Always eat the yellow snow, Sverre.
It could be beer...

They're burning the stubbles of yesteryear's fields
Before ploughing.
Walls of fire around every farm.
Smoke blends with the smell of pig's furtilizing manure,
And whenever my nose wrinkles up
I remember my father's words:

It's the result of millennia of agricultural tradition.
It's the smell of money.
It's the smell of soil to bread.
It's the smell of something far more important
Than nasal comfort.

He had me at
-Where he should have said-
*Organic.

Whenever I wonder how much I love you
I put on the right song
And picture you gone.

It's like an elephant-gun's shot
To the centre
Of a mosquito's
Heart valve.

Generation Playstation.
How many of you know that when it's two o'clock
The sun points
South?

I grew up falling down from trees and hills.
But I also taught myself to make fire
Without fire.
I drank too, as a teenager.
We drank around bonfires.

When we came home red-eyed, smoke-smelling and usually superficially
Cut, our fathers would pretend
Not to be proud.

We saw right through it, just like our mothers did.
They felt they had to say something.
They did, and we pretended to listen,
For the sake of peace to rest.

There was no room for drugs:

We were already
Happy.